


when you say nothing at all

by Starfire (kalypsobean)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Avengers: Age of Ultron (Movie), Break Up, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:36:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5162471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/Starfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She knew Clint wasn't good with words, but it was okay because he made her safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you say nothing at all

He's always had trouble with words; she knew that coming in to this thing, whatever it is. Then it was a sweet, somewhat shy guy asking her for coffee, then a movie, then dinner, then a spare room, and it became this: a house in the country, kids, enough land to grow anything she needs, a car for the things that don't come from the ground or a tree. The bus stops at the front gate at seven twenty-three in the morning, and from then until four eighteen (sixteen eighteen, he says, like he's counting even numbers) she's on her own in the house where everything is halfway done. He leaves it that way on purpose, because he can't tell her that he's coming back - she never knows if he's coming back, except that he promised he would finish it.

He never does finish anything; he just starts something else. He does come back, though; sometimes he'll stay in the stable for a few days, first, and she'll know he's there because there are tracks on the ground where the door dragged because he hasn't fixed the hinges, and there's a light that comes in through her window, too yellow to be the moon. She leaves food on the back step, on those days, and the containers come back almost empty, left with long lines of gravy and crumbs along the bottom like he pulled the food out with his hands. 

He's always distant when he comes in, too, finally ready for a hot shower and clothes that aren't threaded with Kevlar. At first she thought it was just the way he was, or that he was still processing what happened when he was out there, but he doesn't hear her scream when a toy truck runs into her ankle and she burns her wrist on the stove, and he doesn't hear her whispering to him when he's lying in bed, facing that same window, now dark. She never tells him, though; this is his safe place, and, if she keeps things running smoothly enough and the television off during news hour, it's hers as well.

 

He's never been good with words, so when he hangs the pantry shelves so she can use them until he gets a chance to varnish them, she taps him on the shoulder, waits for him to be facing her, and says that it's okay, that they can wait. He smiles, the phone rings, and he's gone, early.

 

He doesn't come back for months and when he does, at last, he's different. The kids don't notice, of course, because it's not in the way he acts. He's used to putting on a face, a show, and hiding everything behind glitz and curtains and shadows, after all. It's that things are being finished. The doors swing quietly, so he can appear behind her, making her jump and spill things, until he remembers how to walk while making a sound. The kitchen smells of wax and cake, and smoke, because she burned the bacon when she went to get a spatula and found the drawers were neatly organised, at least until she pulled one out all the way, expecting it to be stuck and instead tipping the contents on the floor. 

He doesn't say a word about it, of course, but she knows he's preparing for something. Sometimes she wakes up and he's gone; other times she wakes up and he's collapsed next to her, still dressed, still grimy, and she can never tell if he's asleep or waiting for her to leave so that he doesn't have to tell her why. She knows the same things everyone knows, but it's not all there is; she's not sure she wants to understand, but the circles under his eyes grow darker, more permanent, and she can't help but wonder what she could be doing that she isn't already.

 

It's when she's pregnant again, when he breaks their no-outsiders rule and brings the Avengers to stay, that something snaps. Suddenly, it's Tony Stark fixing the tractor, Captain America chopping wood, and Clint is just there, as if he never left. Natasha, she could take. Natasha had always been there, in some way intrinsic to his existence, and she'd fit in easily enough, like a sister or friend. Everyone else, though; it feels as if her world has come crashing down around her and she can't breathe for lack of air nor stand for lack of something to hold her up. She knows it means he had no choice, and, objectively, that it's a good thing that he did this - good that he trusts her enough to let her in to this part of his life, that he feels safe enough here that he would come home in such a crisis.

 

The outside world, though, is no longer that, for her. Even when they've gone, and the kids are finally asleep, the adrenaline and excitement worn off, she feels cold, even with her dressing gown and two blankets over her shoulders and a warm mug in her hands. These things don't just happen once, she knows; these things don't just stop, and men like that don't walk away.

He said he'd be back, as always.

She never said she'd be there; he never listened for her to reply, never stopped and looked back over his shoulder, or waved once more from the gate, so it didn't matter if she said it or not. She didn't say anything; she just watched. It's only now, with space and silence, that she realises that she didn't even think it; she was grateful to see him leave, thankful and relieved. 

She gets up, the blankets wrapped firmly over her shoulders, and pulls down the suitcases before he can come back, even just in her dreams, and change her mind.

**Author's Note:**

> For the prompt 'get out while you still can' from yohkobennington


End file.
